our demons make us who we are
by Iverna
Summary: In which Ethan does not pull the trigger, and the darkness does not win. (post-finale AU, because it needed to be fixed. Ethan x Vanessa.)


Vanessa is tired.

Darkness pulls at her; an ever-present caress, promising warmth, and safety, and love. It is a lie. She knows this now. She has always known it. But in those lonely nights, when she lay alone, forsaken, forgotten, the lie was her only companion. Her only friend. Her only love.

She is surrounded by candles, but still, the darkness perseveres. It is in her very bones, a heavy thing, and she is tired, so tired.

Giving herself into Dracula's arms has brought a reprieve, a peace of sorts. But that, too, is a lie.

Ethan is a sudden storm in the calm, a splash of bright red in the dark, an angry gash in porcelain skin. His roughness is out of place here, in this place of soft light and candles and calm. It hurts to look at him. He is fierce, and desperate, and hopeless. He is honest, and she is surrounded by lies.

She can see it in his eyes when she asks him to pull the trigger, the echo of that night not too long ago, when he held a gun to her head and she prayed that he would end it.

"No," he says, just like she knew he would.

Once, she would have been above begging. But she is tired, and she cannot hold back her tears, and she cannot look at him for much longer. "Please. Ethan. Let it end."

She reaches for the gun, and she guides his hand around it, her eyes never leaving his.

His fingers curl around the handle. The metal presses against her stomach.

And then he tosses it aside.

"No," he repeats, the words coming out with an angry force. "You are not a prize, Vanessa."

Her last hope shatters. A sob works its way up her throat, racking her body. The darkness grows heavier, and he doesn't understand, and she can't make him understand.

"I want it to _end_!" she gets out.

"Then we'll end it!" he swears. He takes her by the arms, his hands warm against her skin, and only now does she realise how very cold she is. "We'll end it, you and I. Together."

Her voice is nothing but a whisper now. "He will never stop."

Ethan's eyes blaze. "We'll damn well _make_ him stop!" His fury is a tangible thing, heating the space between them, bright red driving away the dark. "I have walked through hell to get here. I made a _promise_. What was it all for, if not for this?"

"Then help me end it," she implores him. "Without me, he cannot bring any more evil into the world."

"And without him, there's no one to bring it," Ethan says, his jaw set stubbornly. "What, you don't think he'll find another way? Set his sights on someone else? Would you wish that on anyone?"

She shakes her head. He is wrong: there is no one else. But he won't listen. He won't understand. He won't help her. It's a new betrayal; he has never turned from her in times of need before. He has always been there, loyal and determined, a never-ending well of life and fury.

Somewhere deep inside her, anger stirs. After everything she has suffered, everything she has given, she is finally, truly, alone. Ethan will not help her. Sir Malcolm is nowhere in sight. There is only her.

And the dragon.

The dragon, who lured her in with his soft voice and his lovelorn eyes and his lies, his lies, his lies. He does not want love. He only wants to take.

And anger stirs, and stretches.

He has taken so much already. He took the friend she thought she'd found. He has poisoned the memories of every light-hearted moment they shared. He has sunk his claws into her very soul.

And anger stretches, and roars.

He has taken, but he has given her something, too. The darkness, pulling at her, bowing to her, fleeing from her. His servants, who fear her, love her, revere her, hate her. His trust. Perhaps even what one such as he might consider his heart.

And anger roars, and turns, and finds its twin in the eyes of the man staring into her eyes.

There is only her, and the wolf.

"I'm not leaving you," Ethan says. "We die together, or we leave here together."

Darkness tugs at her. Vanessa tugs back.

"Come, then," she says. "Bring your gun. Let us end it."

And they do.

The scene awaiting them beyond the doors of her refuge is one of chaos and carnage. Vanessa's appearance halts everyone in their tracks. Dracula has his hand around Sir Malcolm's throat, and Vanessa looks at the man who has become a father to her and knows that she cannot leave this world while he is still part of it.

But she does not allow her eyes to linger on him, not yet.

"Beloved," she says, striding over corpses and blood towards the man who has caused all of this. "I am glad to find you safe."

"And you." Dracula gives her a soft smile. Another lie. "Mr. Chandler?"

"As I told you," she assures him as she reaches him. She ignores Sir Malcolm, as she must, though it is difficult. "I have taken care of it." She smiles: a lie. "Do you want to hear how he died?"

His smile widens, and she takes his hands in hers and moves closer, closer, as if her body is not screaming and the darkness is not coiling in her bones and she does not want to run, run, run. She takes hold of the darkness. It is hers, now. She is the mistress. They chose her. Now she chooses it, too.

Dracular has turned towards her, leaving Sir Malcolm kneeling beside him, his head turned and bent down to her, the doorway no longer in sight.

"Tell me," he says.

Vanessa smiles as she stands on her toes, stretching towards him like a cat. "Like this," she whispers.

A shot rings out. Then another, and another.

And as Dracula's body crumples to the ground, Ethan steps out from the doorway, gun still smoking and trained on the room below, eyes smouldering with that familiar fury.

And so, they end it.

* * *

It is not the end of all things. Daylight returns with a vengeance, lighting the blood and the corpses of those who were claimed. Vanessa sees little of it. She returns to the mansion in a daze, and she remembers little of the journey, only a soothing deep voice and strong arms and concerned eyes. She sleeps, and when she wakes, she finds the world changed.

There are still demons. She sees them in Ethan's eyes when he catches her glance across the room. She sees them weighing down Sir Malcolm's shoulders. She sees them in herself when she musters the courage to look in the mirror. But they feel less heavy, now. They are part of her.

Ethan is rather more accepting of hers than his own. But he, too, has learned.

"I should never have left you," he tells her, as they stand by the window and watch the sunrise beyond the buildings. "I thought I was keeping you safe. I'm sorry."

"We've all made mistakes," she says. "You came back. That's what matters."

When the full moon approaches, she takes him with her to the moors, claiming to long for the silence there. He leaves in the night, but she follows, and her heart pounds and her legs shake, but he will not face this alone anymore, not as long as she draws breath.

The wolf finds her. He does not hurt her.

The next time, she takes his hand, and he stays there with her, never speaking, but content to protect her.

She learns to pray again.

It's a strange sort of life they build, the three of them together in the great house. It isn't a life Vanessa ever thought she'd have. Doctor Frankenstein visits, always on some pretence or another, though never with his cousin, and she and he have a long talk on a dark night. She visits Doctor Seward, no longer on any pretence at all; she has had her fill of lies.

The newspapers carry headlines of men – johns, Vanessa thinks, though it's Ethan who says it – being killed in dark alleys. Ethan reads them with a furrowed brow, but no sign of fear that it might have been him. They all know it, even before the rumours start. Vanessa only smiles and shrugs when someone asks her, in appropriately scandalised tones, if she's heard. A guardian angel of whores is hardly the strangest notion she's encountered.

Sir Malcolm is adrift, it seems, no longer keen on travelling to foreign lands but at a loss in his own. He does delight in taking Vanessa and Ethan to the theatre, and introducing the uncouth American to the wonders of English civilisation, as he says.

When the daughter of an acquaintance begins to suffer seizures and talks of visions, he and Vanessa make sure to visit. And Vanessa remembers the cottage on the moors, and the darkness in her bones, and she vanquishes the demon inside the girl with all of her own.

Ethan tells stories by the fire, Vanessa curled into his side and Sir Malcolm leaning back in his chair, tales of a vast open land and fierce warriors and wild animals. Vanessa teaches him more social graces, though they both agree that dancing is the only one of any real use. Sir Malcolm shows them his maps, and is persuaded to give the occasional talk at events that Vanessa never tires of finding.

They have never quite fit into society, none of them, never less than now. But they do fit quite well with each other.

Some nights are still harder than others. Some days are dark. Sometimes, Vanessa is still gripped by fear. Sometimes, Ethan wakes with a yell, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed. Sometimes, she cannot speak, all of her fears and her memories too vivid, too much to bear. Sometimes, she locks herself away; sometimes, he storms out. Sometimes, her demons still win.

But they are her demons, as Ethan's are his. She must live with them – and live she must. And, she reminds herself, she _can_.

They struggle. They cry. They fight. But they do not give up.

Ethan asks her to marry him one day at the shooting range, the words coming out unbidden after she kisses him. Vanessa Ives becomes Vanessa Chandler in a quiet ceremony, with only Sir Malcolm and Victor to bear witness.

There is a child: Charles, curly-haired and bright-eyed, growing too quickly into an inquisitive toddler who loves nothing better than to cause chaos in Sir Malcolm's study. And another: Claire, dark-haired like her mother, to Ethan's delight. The house fills with shrieking and laughter and all of the daily catastrophes that come with parenthood. Sir Malcolm finds a new purpose in wrangling the children, telling them about Africa and India and the wild blue sea in between, finding books for them to read. Ethan tells them stories. Vanessa teaches them to dance. Claire does not play with dolls. Charles does not play with toy soldiers.

They have demons, too, as all children do. Theirs are perhaps a little darker. Charles talks to people that no one else can see, and Vanessa has to teach him how to keep them from taking over his body or mind. Claire's temper is too big for her, and Ethan has to restrain her and teach her how to control it. There are tears, and tantrums, and fear, so much fear.

But they do not give up.

They look out for each other. Ethan's arms anchor Vanessa to herself, keep the darkness at bay. Vanessa and the children give his fury a focus, bend it towards protection, not destruction. Claire shakes Charles out of his daze. Charles stops Claire from pulling her own hair in rage. Vanessa makes their excuses when the conversation turns to "savages" and Ethan's temper threatens to flare, or when Charles gets that funny look in his eye.

They do not quite fit into society, but they fit into their lives. There are walks in the park on Sundays. There are evenings by the fire, the children lulled to sleep by Ethan's storytelling. There are adventures in the countryside, or by the sea. There is love, love, love.

The darkness does not win.


End file.
